Very Bad Boys
by PseudonymousEntity
Summary: After his friends turn on him when his name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, Harry seeks out the one person who can help him regain control of his life and teach the world to treat him with respect. Tom Riddle. Apparently the diary wasn't as destroyed as everyone was led to believe. Revenge. Dark!Harry. Manipulative!Dumbledore. Teen!Tom. SLASH HP/TMR
1. Chapter 1

**SUMMERY**: Fourteen year old Harry Potter is sick of the Wizarding World and everyone it. Well, almost. With help of a sixteen year old Tom Riddle, Harry shows the world it's time to treat him with respect.

**Rating: M.** For a reason folks. You've been warned. Don't be surprised later on.

**Characters:** Harry Potter. Tom Riddle. Draco Malfoy. (HP/TMR pairing)

**Warnings: **Violence. Vengeance. Dark Magic. Backstabbing. Mental and emotional abuse. Pureblood politics. Possessed diaries. Teenage Dark Lords. Manipulation.

**AN:** This story is going to be based off of the dreams in the _Alchema: Child of Fate_ universe as they were so popular. Will be full length.

**-Pseudonymous**

* * *

_Sometimes I don't want to get better,_

_Sometimes I can't be put back together,_

_Sometimes I find it hard to believe,_

_There's someone else who could be, just as messed up as me_

* * *

A lissome boy with inky hair stooped over a bubbling cauldron in an abandoned classroom. Pale yellow light reflected on his face, showing lips pulled between white teeth absently. Emerald orbs rimmed with thick dark lashes shined with curiosity and determination. His attention flickered between the heating liquid and a set of notes on the desk beside him.

From the outside looking in one might see an avid potions researcher seeking a place to work without disturbance. One might see a student working diligently to better their-self at a subject in which they perform less than adequately. One might see a prankster readying a potion of their own invention to reek havoc on these hallowed halls. What one might not see, after casually glancing in, is that something life altering was progress.

_No turning back now._

Harry Potter was going to change the world. Right now. In this moment. And then they would see.

Dumbledore with his ever twinkling eyes and subtle manipulations. Hermione, whom he hoped choked on her self-serving ideals. Ron and Draco, both of whom teased him for his girly face and his moniker (the-boy-who-live and more recently Slytherin's heir) respectively.

He was tired of everyone walking on eggshells around him. Speaking down to him in soft condescending tones, soothing his worries with pats on the head and promises of more information when he was ready. Of the small, humoring smiles when he requested passes to the restricted section or asked questions above his year. Apparently he was only the Savior of the Wizarding World when it suited them and at all other times he was a naive child who oughtn't know anything about the reality of the situation.

_Well, no more. No more being underestimated. No more being ignored. Being used._

Harry spooned a small amount of potion into a vial and grinned wickedly. If he succeeded, they'd acknowledge him then. They'd see him then. He would be famous for his own merits and no one would dare mock him. Not for his looks or his short stature or his parentage. They would see him now. The real Harry.

He turned and stepped into a circle drawn on the stone floor with ashes and salt. Harry took a calming breath, brought the vial to his lips and tipped it just enough to taste. A series of thundering, rolling booms startled him. It took a great deal of self-control not to jump out of the circle as the world around him shimmered, blurred and swirled around him. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Harry immediately toppled over. Not quite the entrance he'd imagined.

"You're here..." a low voice whispered.

Rubbing the back of his head, face flushed with embarrassment, Harry sat up. To his left, across a large, wet hall stood the key to his success. The Yin to his Yang. His equal.

"Riddle." He greeted, saluting cheerily.

Harry stood and wiped the grime off his dark tunic and slacks. A grimace flickered across his face. Yuck.

"You're here." Riddle, eyes glimmering, calculating, observing, said again.

"Apparently."

"In my diary."

"Yes."

Tom took a single step forward and paused. "With me."

Harry grinned. "With you."

Tom Riddle shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled across the chamber. Harry began backing up, a tiny measure of alarm prodding at him in the back of his mind. Tom stopped a breath away, his left hand brushing the fringe from his forehead. Long fingers skittered across his face. Blue eyes met green and Harry felt his breath hitch, a shudder of apprehension flowing through him. He believed it was warranted, sixteen or not this was still Voldemort.

"Harry?"

"Yes. It's me Tom."

Riddle brushed fingers through Harry's hair and down his neck feeling his pulse point and back to his face.

"You managed to retrieve me from the girl. She stole me from his office you know. Dumbledore's. I don't remember how I got there Harry. Are you the reason why? "

"Yes. You've been asleep for a while now. I'm in my fourth year."

The hand cupped his cheek, slid along his jaw and allowed a pale finger to trace his lips.

"Why are you here Harry?"

Harry swallowed and ordered himself to breathe.

"They..." he trailed off searching for the proper words, "they think they know me. And using the information they have supplied, they _dare _to choose my future for me. The dare to judge me worth, my potential. The treat me like a shiny weapon one day and a naive child the next." He paused.

Riddle waited patiently, a peculiar, possessive gleam forming in his eyes.

"But they don't know me. None of them. They don't even try." as if in answer to his raging and confusing emotions, the pools of water rippled, the lights flickered and cracks spidered along the stones. Resentment and jealousy and bitterness and a mess of other emotions he'd never allowed himself to acknowledge radiated off him in a stormy aura. Years of frustration released from their chains of denial and self-loathing. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands hard, blood trickling from them.

"I am _not_ some... some golden child with rose-coloured glasses and hopeful dreams. I've seen the world. The real world. I lived in it. This..." He gestured around them as well as he could with Riddle standing so close, "this is a fantasy. All their talk of equality and understanding and tolerance. They only tolerate people like them. And...and if you're different...if you're truly special...they mock you. They fear you. They try to manipulate you..."

He closed his eyes, took a breath, opened them and raised his vial with the remaining potion in it. "Freedom."

Harry handed it over.

Riddle took it with his right hand and stared. "You would release me?"

"I've seen reality. I'm doing my best to change it to suit my needs. I need a new ending, the previous one was less than satisfactory. And, in any way, I've seen enough to know what I'm doing."

"What could you have seen? You're only a child."

He smiled bitterly. "Am I?"

Sharp eyes focused on him.

"Harry?"

Said boy tilted his head, eyes hardening. ""Why should we have to stand in the corner, suffering in silence while everyone else walks around with painted smiles on their faces, wearing mass-produced rose-coloured glasses like everything is right in the world? Like everything is okay? Fuck that. Misery is a selfish bitch and so am I."

Tom's lips twitched, unknown to Harry, he'd been ranting in Parseltongue. He ran his free hand through Harry's inky locks and pulled him into a strange embrace. A hug, Harry supposed. Though he hadn't had enough in his life to really be certain.

Tom whispered quietly, "I will show you the darkness they fear so and then I shall use it to free you from your cage of synthetic light..."

He was pushed back gently, just enough to come face to face with Riddle.

"Do you know who I am? Who I will become?"

Harry stared back, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

"Yes."

His back hit the wall and cold lips crashed on to his. Green eyes widened then closed. Fingers pulled his hair in a vice like grip and a tongue coated with the rest of the potion flicked into his mouth. The world blurred around them, it spun and reformed into a shadowed room with a cauldron in one corner and two dark-haired orphaned boys standing together, in a newly made, fragile, alliance, within a circle painted in salt and ashes.


	2. Chapter 2

**SUMMERY**: Fourteen year old Harry Potter is sick of the Wizarding World and everyone it. Well, almost. With help of a sixteen year old Tom Riddle, Harry shows the world it's time to treat him with respect.

**Rating: M.** For a reason folks. You've been warned. Don't be surprised later on.

**Characters:** Harry Potter. Tom Riddle. Draco Malfoy. (HP/TMR pairing)

**Warnings: **Violence. Vengeance. Dark Magic. Backstabbing. Mental and emotional abuse. Pureblood politics. Possessed diaries. Teenage Dark Lords. Manipulation.

**AN:** Second chapter. Don't forget to let me know if you like what I do.

**-Pseudonymous**

* * *

_Do you know what you got into_  
_Can you handle what I'm about to do_  
_cus it's about to get rough for you_  
_I'm here for your entertainment_

* * *

It was easy to put the change in his character and habits to preparation for the tournament. Some said he felt guilty about cheating or he was frightened and studying like mad. That he was sulking for being ignored by the majority of his house and indeed the school. Which, according to several pissed off Hufflepuffs, the cheating bastard deserved. No one noticed how far the subtle shifts went. No one noticed the hours he spent, supposedly alone. No one thought anything of him distancing himself from his friends. The teachers remarked in passing that he was doing much in classes, that he was often seen in the library or that he was more reserved/ Growing, they would say. Or, perhaps, finally taking things seriously, said others. A day would come when the world would look back on these moments, the calm before the storm, and wonder how they ever managed not to see it coming.

Because while they were off gossiping and insulting and belittling and skipping on their merry way, Harry Potter was planning plans and dreaming dreams.

And he was far from sulking.

"Again!"

Harry shifted to the left and missed a flash of blue, then another. A third made him drop the floor and roll to avoid a fourth. The ground he vacated seconds before darkened nearly black by a fire spell of some sort. He reflected this would be easier if he knew what was being cast at hi, then he could try to fight back. As it was Tom, being the sadistic jerk he was, insisted on casting silently. Harry's healing abilities had increased dramatically in the last two weeks. It wasn't as if he could explain away fractures and dramatic blood loss. Students got into fights but not like this and certainly not every night. It also wouldn't be the best idea to tell them he was practicing with a sixteen year old from fifty years in the past.

"Damn." Harry hiss and clutched his arm only to be hit in his shoulder.

Cursing again he ducked behind what was left of a desk and imagined all the curses he was learning just so he could use them on Tom. Not that he didn't enjoy the bastards company. But damn it to Merlin that stinging hex was vile.

"If you didn't want to be hit you oughtn't to have day dreamed. I should have killed you. You would have deserved it. Now get out here and try again."

Harry grit his teeth and flung himself from his hiding place.

Tom Riddle stood on the other end of the room, only the slightest sheen of sweat, dressed in all black long sleeved tunic and trousers. He stood with his his feet a foot apart, eyes flicking from his opponent to his surroundings. Harry stood with one foot in front of the other, weight balance, knees a bit bent, his wand poised to block attacks rather than fire him. One a deadly predator, one an adapting nomad. Tom was all about domination and mental manipulations. If he couldn't kill you straight out he had you kill yourself by wearing down your concentration with intimidation and taunting. Instead of keeping you're head in the game you let your emotions rule your responses and he reaped the benefits accordingly.

Harry on the other hand was a miss-mash of defensive and evasive maneuvers. His spells were powerful when he managed to get an offensive one out, his shield spell and reflective spells were durable, he was quick on his feet and reacted on instinct. His entire strategy was survival. He avoided getting hit and used his endurance and speed to wear down his opponent. The more tired they were the sloppier their spell-work, the more he could risk firing an offensive spell of his own and the more likely he would best you. The two fighting styles together made for long, violent matches.

Both Harry and Tom were strong willed, powerful, stubborn and fueled by a thirst. A thirst to prove themselves. A yearning for strength and power to protect themselves. They were special and they knew it and soon the world would acknowledge it, on it's knees. In chains. At their feet. Because they had an understanding that only the one could provide the other. The bullying. The feeling of being at another's mercy. The manipulations of others. The gossip and insults and constant fight to get any recognition. The knowledge of being superior and the fury at being ignored or used or disrespected. They didn't seek justice, they sought vengeance. Any why shouldn't they?

Contrary to Dumbledore's ramblings of morality, revenge was only human.

"Again!"

Shield, duck, sidestep, shield, reflect, dodge, sidestep, dodge, reflect, shield, expelliarmus, incendio, reflect, duck, roll, jump, duck, shield...

But Harry hadn't revealed all his secrets.

_"Cogita Multiplicamini."_ He whispered.

Tom paused as replicas of himself surrounded him, wands twirling, faces smirking. He cast a quick _Finate Incantatu_m and raised a brow when they didn't disappear.

_"Incarcerus! Inpedimenta! Bombarda! Rictusempra!"_

He jerked to the right and swore when his reflections shot off spells of their own. On the defensive for the first time this session he ducked and shot back another string of curses. Again and again, only for the same curses to be shot back , by himself. It mused it was like a very strange and deadly therapy session to cure self loathing.

He turned his head at movement in the corner of his eye only to be hit with a spell. Tom scowled at Harry from the floor and waved his wand to cancel the spell.

Harry cocked his head, utterly calm and flicked his wand.

_"Renati Daemonium."_

Tom's eye widened. He was hit before he could remember the shield spell for it.

Silence.

Tom lay on the ground staring blankly up at the ceiling. Then the memories started. He was four and the older kids at the orphanage locked him outside for the night. He was seven and the cook held in arm in boiling water. He was nine and pinned down on a bed by two attendants, screaming while a priest attempted to exercise him.

His body shuddered violently. The curse lifted. He tried to sit up.

"Crucio!"

He dodged.

"Crucio!"

Harry dropped, blood fell from his lips as his teeth dug into them trying to with hold screams. Thirty seconds later he gave that up. Five minutes later the spell released.

Tom crossed the floor quickly, bleeding and bruised from his own injuries. He straddled Harry and ran his long fingers across his face. Harry shook his head and regain enough clarity to feel lips searing against his, hips grinding against him and hear a moan escape his lips. Cuts, sprains and gashes scraped on the floor, the burns and glass and splinters of wood completely forgotten around them. Tom kissed down his neck then reclaimed his mouth. He twined his fingers in inky hair and pulled Harry's head back to attack his throat. He bit and Harry gasped. Another kiss. Hard and mean and dominating. Feral groans and a fierce wild need to control and claim the other.

Finally Tom pulled away, both panting, cheeks flushed and sweating from fighting.

From torturing the other. From lust.

He grinned down at Harry, eyes shining with approval, desire and dark possessiveness. Mind filled with harsher curses, more violent hexes and a longing to hear the other scream, the other hurt and be hurt. Being at his mercy, even for the sort time it was, seeing that cruel, calculating, pleased look on Harry's face while he lay at his feet had him pumped up with adrenaline.

"Again." Tom growled.

Harry pulled his knees to his chest and kicked Tom off.

"Incendio!"

"Prego! Immobilus!"

"Vind-lashio!"

Tiny cuts and slices swept up Toms body, blood staining his black clothes darker, soaking them against his skin. Sticking to them and pulling away more skin each time he moved, his sweat leaking salt into them, stinging. He flicked his wand and Harry was flung into the air, spun and hit the wall with a crack.

Three hours later, with ten minutes to spare until curfew, Harry entered his common room. Fresh clothes, bruises faded, cuts healed, bones repaired. He made no attempts to engage in conversation and his house mates ignored him for the most part. Though he wouldn't have noticed if they did may him attention. Unless it hindered his plans, it didn't matter. This childish need to know what others were up to and who was speaking with whom or who fought with whom...it did nothing for him. His mind spun with calculations and strategies and plans. While others were struggling in class he was getting most spells by his third try and spending the remaining call periods assessing his class mates. Some of them had assessed him in return. Which lead to a shaky ceasefire between himself and the Slytherins. For the most part, some of them mocked him for his placement in the Tournament but the rest lost the desire when it became clear he didn't care and didn't notice. While the rest of the school carried on as usual, the Slytherins were watching him. They watched him study. They watched him research. They watched him improve in classes. They watched him dodge spells in the halls when disgruntled classmates tried to hex him. They watched him cut them down with his words. They watched the dull indifference he regarded the world with shine in his killing curse eyes. They watched and they calculated and they wondered.

Because even though, in the past, there had been public confrontations between members so their house and Potter and his friends. Even though he, until now, been the poster child Of Gryffindor and the light. Slytherins were known as the cunning and ambitious for a reason. Recognizing power was like breathing. Recognizing changes in social structure was like drinking water. Things they had always known to do. If Harry Potter was separating himself from his house willingly, they wanted to know why. He should have tried to get back in his friend's good graces weeks ago. He should have been taking his anger out on Malfoy. He should have dulled eyes, and sullen disposition and lack of motivation in class. There ought to have been signs of his displeasure. What they saw, what no one else seemed to notice, was the light shining in his eyes. The straight back and head held high. The narrowed eyes and tightened jaw and cold, hard avoidance of everyone. They could almost feel his power growing. They didn't need to know how. They knew the signs of exhaustive training, of confidence in one's abilities, the sure steps of one who has chosen their path. The question wasn't how he was doing it.

The question was why.


	3. Chapter 3

**SUMMERY**: Fourteen year old Harry Potter is sick of the Wizarding World and everyone it. Well, almost. With help of a sixteen year old Tom Riddle, Harry shows the world it's time to treat him with respect.

**Rating: M.** For a reason folks. You've been warned. Don't be surprised later on.

**Characters:** Harry Potter. Tom Riddle. Draco Malfoy. (HP/TMR pairing)

**Warnings: **Violence. Vengeance. Dark Magic. Backstabbing. Mental and emotional abuse. Pureblood politics. Possessed diaries. Teenage Dark Lords. Manipulation.

**AN:** Third chap. Sorry, no Beta. Don't forget to let me know if you like what I do.

**-Pseudonymous**

* * *

_...demons lay in waiting, tempting me away_

_oh how i adore you_

_oh how i thirst for you_

_oh how i need you_

_The way you make me feel, I've never felt so real_

* * *

Silver eyes followed Potter, more closely than usual. Which was saying something. There had been a time Draco Malfoy would have killed to get his attention. He went as far in that direction as he dared, it worked. Until recently. Until this year. And it wasn't him specifically that was being shunned, it was the entire school. He had hoped to bring Potter attentions on himself again when he concocted those silly badges. Not very Slytherin but perfect bait for a Gryffindor. At least, it should have been. Potter only raised an eyebrow, something that could be amusement flickering in his eyes before he continued on his way. Everyone else either dismissed it or didn't notice but Draco did. It said a lot of things if you knew what to look for. The first being that Potter wasn't interested in even keeping up the appearances of a rivalry with him. That Potter didn't find it worth his concern, which meant he thought he had more important things to worry about. That he allowed Draco to see his amusement said something else as well. So that brought him here, leaning against a wall on the seventh floor, arms crossed. Waiting.

No one knew Harry Potter like he did. He knew what pleased him, what made him angry, what annoyed him. He knew what food he didn't like. What his favorite shirt was. His utter dislike for being told what to do. His dissatisfaction. His inability to be happy. Draco knew and he watched and he kept it in mind. You never knew when such things came in handy. So when the slightest changed occurred in Potter, Draco noticed instantly. He observed and calculated and figured out the why's and the how's. That was the only way to act accordingly, wasn't it? You can't taunt someone if you don't know what makes their blood boil. Who they were in favor with, who they disliked, how they felt. You had to pay attention. This was how political battles were won in the background. How wars ended before they started. How rebellions were squashed. You had to pay attention.

At precisely half an hour to curfew a door materialized on the opposite wall and Potter stepped out. He zeroed in on Draco right away, which had been expected. Draco raised his hands, empty, and step away from the wall and into the light of the dimly lit hallway. They stared at one another for a moment. Neither saying anything. It wasn't too long ago when they would have hexed each other if a chance like this came. Now they both studied the other, pondering their next move.

"I want to know what's going on."

The Gryffindor opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and tilted his head. Slowly Potter paced around him. Which, yes, was unnerving. It was cat-like and predatory. Not something he'd ever seen in the boy before.

Flickers of something rippling out every so often. One loop around him. Two. It build up. Sweat gleamed on his pale skin and Draco's breathing became labored. He knew this feeling. It was dark magic. Powerful magic. Potter stopped beside him, took hold of his hand and pulled him to the door and to the room inside. Draco couldn't find it in himself to even be suspicious of his motives.

Inside a very large dueling arena was set up. With Potter's increase in reflexes, which were already fabulous from playing Seeker, and his growing strength in class, some sort oftraining room was expected. Potter stepped behind him, left arm sliding around Draco's chest to hold him closer, right hand following his right arm down until it clasped around his wrist. He raised Draco's right arm and pointed it toward the dummies across the hall.

"Can you feel it Draco?" The shorter boy murmured against his ear.

Potter rested his chin on Draco's shoulder and whispered a spell. Electricity swirled down his arm and out his hand. It spiraled, igniting the air in sparks until it hit the wall and exploded. Draco brought in a shaky breath. That feeling was amazing. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. He was light headed, giddy, a feral smile lighting his face.

"Again." He ordered, haughtily.

Potter snickered and whispered another spell. And another. And another.

"Again."

The build up of magic left Draco breathless. It was intoxicating.

"How are you doing this?" He managed to ask.

Potter clucked his teeth, left hand sliding up Draco's throat forcing his head back.

"You feel it. You want it. I can tell."

Draco tried to breath in gulping breaths.

"The question, the real question, is what you are willing to do to have your own piece of it. Think Draco, there doesn't have to be a light side and dark side in this world. There are those with power and those without it. You aren't weak Draco. You are clever. You were raised to know the politics of this world, the social aspects of it, the subtle manipulations, the connections, the feuds. You know it all. Why let all that precious knowledge go to waste, waiting around for your father to die so you can use it? Yo could use it now. With us."

"Us?"

"I decided neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort quite had what suited my needs, so I formed another side. You could be a part of it Draco. We could use your talents."

Power rolled and crashed in Draco's veins, his bones rattling with the echoes, his spine tingling, electricity raking down his back, heart shivering and pulsing with it. There's no way he could give this up. This feeling. The thought of never tasting it again was unbearable.

Draco Malfoy had done his best to be what the world required of him. What his father required of him. What his house required of him. But he had been living his life for everyone else and if continued on this path, chosen for him, he would serve his father's master one day. He couldn't stand the thought of bowing at another person's feet, no matter how powerful. He may be an arrogant jerk, but he was arrogant jerk with an extensive knowledge of poisons, dark magic, forbidden magic, a huge library of the stuff at his disposal in the family manor, large familial connections and an obsessive, ambitious streak.

He wanted to be the best. Without argument. Not for his last name, not for his status or his wealth or his position in his house. He wanted to be, undeniably, the best. The fact Potter could read his soul so thoroughly was frightening...and fascinating. He was vaguely aware Of the warmth leaving his back and Potter reappearing in front of him, holding out his hand.

"Do you want to fight to be a part of the ruling class in a world you don't even like? Or do you want to tear the world down and rebuild it to your liking?"

Another boy stepped out of the darkness in the corners of the room. He must have been watching all the while. As he watched the boy walk to stand beside Potter he noted something. They looked very similar, though one was a taller, fairer skin version with cool blue eyes and hair parted to the left. The other, messy inky hair, killing curse green eyes, shirt partially unbuttoned showing tanned skin. The other, the one he didn't know, dressed from head to toe in black, skin covered. Opposites, but sides of the same coin.

He wanted... no he needed to know who this other boy was. He needed to know what brought about this change in Potter. He needed to know where they were going with this. He needed to be a part of it, to feel that power, to control it, to bend it to his will. In that moment he would do anything Potter asked of him if it meant he could get a piece of this for himself. Anything.

He raised his chin arrogantly.

"I'm in."


End file.
